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I’m not smart like Greer. Her teachers always loved her, while I was labeled as one of the troublemakers who disrupted class.

It didn’t matter how hard I tried. Everyone always assumed the worst about me, like I had a neon sign flashing the word trouble floating above my head.

Eventually I stopped trying to convince everyone of my true character. I let them believe whatever it is that they wanted about me, happily blending into the background as much as I could.

Then my sister got pregnant, and I no longer had the luxury of being invisible. Qualified or not, my family needed me to step up. So I did.

Acting was my only real option at fame since even autotune couldn’t help my singing, and I’d been kicked out of ballet before my first recital. I wasn’t particularly talented, but with the right styling, I was pretty enough to get roles.

I didn’t enjoy the work, especially memorizing lines and always being cast as the teenage villain. But it was the first time in my life I’d ever felt halfway competent at something, and that felt sort of nice.

I’d finally found something I was good at. A career where being likable wasn’t required—and being unlikable could actually work in my favor. In a lot of ways, it was empowering being Hollywood’s favorite bad girl, as long as I didn’t pay too much attention to the media, anyway.

Being sexualized by grown men and all the countdowns until I turned eighteen were one thing. But I quickly realized that men are pigs. I lowered my expectations and came to expect that behavior from them. After that, things got easier.

What I really struggled with were the hateful comments about my body, my talent, and my character. Those words, often spoken by women, hurt the most.

I learned at a young age that I was completely and utterly alone. That I couldn’t trust anyone to see me fully, that in the end, people would always let me down. I’ve been burned by everyone in my life, apart from my sister, which is why I’m still doing this at all.

The last thing I needed this summer was to be reminded of how stupid I am; how my beauty is the only thing I have going for me.

What makes it all so much worse is that for the first time in my life, I want a man to find me attractive. But then I remember who I am, and any fantasies that this could go anywhere, shrivel up and die on the spot.

It’s kind of depressing, actually, which only pisses me off more.

I’m pretty sure this whole anger management thing is having the opposite effect. Unless the point is to force me to zoom in on the worst parts of myself, giving me more fuel for my ever-growing self-loathing. Then, of course, it’s working great.

I stroke Tilly’s ears, her big brown eyes staring up at me like I’m her favorite person in the whole world.

“What about you? Did you do anything bad today?” Her tail wags faster, and her tongue lolls out of her mouth as I lecture her for digging up the tulip bulbs Lewis just planted. “I know, I know. It’s fun to do bad things sometimes,” I tell her just as my phone lights up with a call from my sister.

Already feeling my mood lifting, I answer the call on speakerphone as I dig through the fridge looking for something quick to eat for dinner.

Greer’s voice echoes through the small kitchen. “Hey, sis. Sorry, but I’m going to have to cancel on you again. Sasha has an away game this weekend. They just added it to the schedule.”

“Dammit, Greer. Your kids’ activities are ruining all my plans,” I tease, though it’s not exactly untrue. I know Greer’s kids need their mom, but selfishly, sometimes I miss having my big sister all to myself. Maybe it’s just the nostalgia I’m feeling from being this close to her, or that I’m working my first real job, but I find myself thinking about what our life could’ve been like if we never moved away.

“Yeah, tell me about it. I have no idea where these ambitious children came from. What happened to Saturday morning cartoons and video games?” she quips back.

“You’re one to talk about ambition. Like mother like son,” I scoff, closing the fridge with my hip. I carry my armful of ingredients and begin dumping them into a ceramic mixing bowl.

“Which is why I feel extra qualified to speak on the fact that I think he’s putting too much pressure on himself.” She sighs, sounding defeated. “But what do I know? Right?”

“You’re a good mom, G. Sasha knows that. He’s a talented kid, and he’s just trying to figure out his place in the world,” I say, trying to reassure her.

“Yeah, I know. I just wish there was some way I could get through to him. He’s so damn stubborn.” Her voice trails off. Then, as if catching herself being too depressing, she flips the conversation back onto me. “So…how’s the new job going? Is the sexual tension between you two crazy?” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “You haven’t fucked him again, have you?”

I round the corner with my bowl of ingredients in hand and grab a bottle of wine as I pass.

“Sorry to burst your bubble, but no, I don’t think that will be happening again.”

“Why not? Do you want it to?”

I make my way to my favorite room in the house, the bathroom.

The clawfoot bathtub is calling my name.

“Because I’m pretty sure he hates me.”